


Habitual-ly

by pennyofthewild



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Coffee Shops, Future Fic, M/M, Secret Santa, oikageweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennyofthewild/pseuds/pennyofthewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a breezy day in April when a very familiar face – attached to a very familiar body – walks into the coffee-shop Tooru is working at.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Habitual-ly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> I'm sorry this is really, really, really bad?

It is a breezy day in April when a very familiar face – attached to a very familiar body – walks into the coffee-shop Tooru is working at.

***

Tooru pulls out a chair – harder than necessary – and sits down, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Right, you got me. What do you want?”

Across the table, Kageyama bites his lip, hands wrapped around his still-steaming coffee. “You’re upset with me,” he observes, with his ever-present tendency to point out the obvious. He looks uncomfortable, sitting in his too-large jacket – the cuffs reach his knuckles – with his elbows on the tabletop, eyes on Tooru’s face, hesitant, like a little boy caught doing something wrong.

The idea – of Kageyama being a little boy – isn’t a thought Tooru likes to entertain, and he immediately regrets thinking it. Still, the image of middle-school Kageyama flinching from his fist takes a moment to disappear, adding to Tooru’s general irritation.

Tooru reminds himself that Kageyama isn’t in middle school anymore. He’s a high school graduate, now, and looks the part, too. He is – and Tooru hates to admit it – taller than Tooru, now, and has grown into his height, dispelling the gangly awkwardness about him.

He’s retained his habit of getting under Tooru’s skin, however.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Tooru says, “you’re interrupting my break. Get on with it.”

 “I – ,” Kageyama hedges, uncharacteristically hesitant, “I just wanted to talk.” He bites his lip again, and Tooru wonders when he picked up that particular nervous habit. Then he wonders why Kageyama is nervous at all, and stops wondering completely.

He sighs, rests his chin in the palm of his hand. “So talk.”

“You know, I got a sports scholarship to Keio,” Kageyama begins, sounding as though he is making an effort to choose his words.

“I didn’t, but I do now,” Tooru says, wryly. “Great job, I wondered why you were in the city at all.”

Kageyama smiles a little. “Can’t get rid of me, can you, senpai.”

“Apparently not.”

“And – I joined the volleyball club.”

“I never would’ve guessed,” Tooru says, and apparently Kageyama’s learned to process sarcasm at some point over the last two years, because he looks appropriately abashed.

“You’re studying at Keio, too, senpai.”

It isn’t a question, and Tooru, with a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, realizes where the conversation is going:

“Why aren’t you in the club?”

“None of your business,” Tooru says, tipping his head to the side and smiling his brightest, sharpest smile. 

“Senpai – ”

“No,” the smile, Tooru finds, is hard to keep in place, “I’m not having this conversation again, and especially not with you.” He breathes out, releasing a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and moves to stand.

“Senpai,” Kageyama reaches out, trapping Tooru’s hand against the surface of the table – in an apparently impulsive move, because he looks as shocked as Tooru feels. He pulls back almost as quickly. Tooru tries not to dwell on how warm his fingers had been. “I – ”

“Oh, look,” Tooru taps his wristwatch, “my break’s over.” He pulls his grin wider, showing teeth. “Isn’t that a shame?”

Back behind the counter, tying his apron around his waist, Tooru is accosted by his fellow barista, who shoots him a knowing look and a, “back so soon?”

Tooru ignores him.

***

If there is one thing going to school with – and playing against – Kageyama taught Tooru, it’s that he doesn’t give up on the things he wants.

What Tooru doesn’t understand, though, is what Kageyama wants from _him_. He is still pondering the question a week and several coffee orders later, having seen Kageyama no less than five different times over the last seventy-two hours.

The last time was in a dream, so he’s not sure it counts.

The door jingles, announcing a customer, and looking up, Tooru begins considering restraining orders.

“This is a coffee shop, not a gym, you know,” he can’t help but say, when Kageyama arrives at the counter, “and we’re out of volleyball lessons.”

“Um, I’m here for coffee, actually?” His eyebrows crinkle, voice going up on the last syllable, and Tooru barely avoids tacking ‘adorable’ to his mental description.

“Of course you are,” Tooru says, “macchiato, two shots espresso, dash of caramel, hold the sugar, anything else?”

There is a moment of silence. Tooru looks up to find Kageyama looking distinctly unnerved.

“What,” Tooru says, and adds, _brilliant move, Tooru_ , in his head.

“That’s what I was going to say,” Kageyama says, still looking shell-shocked, and Tooru grins, biting back the urge to laugh.

 “Ah,” he says, “how silly of me.”

***

“Say,” Tooru’s fellow barista says – he really is annoying, a trait common to everyone Tooru knows, it seems, “I noticed you’ve got a new regular.”

Tooru pauses in the act of wiping spilled milk. “We,” he corrects, and he’s not sure what possesses him to add, “and he’s not new.”

Unfortunately, he is unable to dodge the inevitable questioning that comes after.

***

Despite all his efforts otherwise, Tooru finds himself facing Kageyama across a net one midsummer night a little over four months after Kageyama first walked into a coffee shop in downtown Tokyo. Maybe Tooru didn’t try hard enough – didn’t try his best – or his best fell through against Kageyama’s best, an inevitability, like Kageyama’s painful earnestness and Tooru’s inescapable fuckups.

It’s not the first time Tooru’s lost to Kageyama. It won’t be the last.

Kageyama unzips his jersey, tosses it on the bench next to his duffel bag. He is wearing his usual uniform of tracksuit pants – and his shirt is long-sleeved, even though it is over thirty degrees Celsius and the cicadas are singing. His sneakers scrape against the tarmac as he comes to stand in front of Tooru, hands tucked into his pockets.

“I’m going to give this my best shot,” Kageyama announces, as if he’d ever do otherwise.

“Can I forfeit?” Tooru rolls his shoulders, “unlike you, I’m not looking for anything here.”

“I’m not looking for anything, either,” Kageyama says, bewildered, tucking the volleyball in the crook of his arm.

“You know it’s impossible to play volleyball one-on-one, right?” Tooru crosses his arms over his chest. “You can’t toss and spike all by yourself. You need at least two people a side.”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to teach me anything,” Kageyama says. Tooru watches him walk to the far side of the court and take position.  He calls, “I won’t go easy on you just because you’re out of practice.”

There is, Tooru thinks, a competitive streak in him that runs about as deep as Kageyama’s ability to be an idiot and get under Tooru’s skin. It may take a while to resurface after having been buried with Tooru’s particular brand of vehemence, but come out it will – and – he bends his knees, lowering his center of gravity – it has.

***

“What happened to you?” Tooru’s coworker eyes him as if he’s afraid Tooru is contagious, “you look like you were hit by a truck and just woke up.” He winces as Tooru hobbles over to the espresso machine. “You move like it, too.” A wicked sort of gleam appears in his eye.

Hoping to cut off whatever dangerous train of thought his coworker has embarked on, Tooru says, “I pushed myself a little hard, that’s all. Strenuous work-out – ” He stops, realizing he is doing more harm than good.

The door jingles.

“I think I know what you mean,” Tooru’s coworker says, voice laced with implication.

“I think you don’t,” Tooru snaps, as Kageyama approaches the counter. “Can I help you?”

“I’d tell you,” Kageyama says, “but you already know my coffee order,” and he rests his elbows against the countertop, effortlessly contributing, per longstanding habit, to Tooru’s pain.

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

end.


End file.
